“Yes, oh! yes. And, sometimes, after the shearing and such things when we have everybody here to a fiesta, it is just full of people. Oh! I love it then! and so does my father. But—now shut your eyes! Please shut them just a minute and don’t open them till I tell you, and I’ll show you the ‘loveliest spot on earth,’ my father says.”
Her enthusiasm won his compliance with her whim and, like a boy at play, he followed her blindfold down many passages and through the breezy cloister, till she paused and cried: “Now, look! Quick!”
Then he raised his lids but promptly dropped them again, to clear his bewildered vision.
“Oh! Señor, isn’t it beautiful?”
“Beautiful, indeed! It is a miracle! It is a paradise!”
“Oh! no. It is my mother’s garden,” said Carlota, simply.
“But your mother is dead, long ago,” responded Mr. Rupert, in surprise.
“She has only gone to Heaven. Father and I are taking care of it for her. He does all the heavy work, because the water-cans are too big for me, though we have a fine little water-wagon that we roll around from place to place. But I, myself, prune and cut every plant that needs it. They are from almost all the countries in the world, and some of them have cost my father much, much money. Many have cost nothing but a nice ride or tramp after them. All the things my mother put here, herself, are still alive. Nothing can help living because we so love everything that grows; and, besides, the climate is perfect, my father says,” finished the little girl.
Truly it was a wonderful place, this old court of the monastery. Its southern, open side was a hedge of the prickly pear, which the wise Franciscans had found a natural and safe barricade against the troublous Indians. This hedge was much taller than Carlota’s head and was more than eight feet in width. Its lower branches were curiously gnarled and twisted and as thick as a man’s arm, while every portion bristled with strong spines more difficult to force than bayonet-points, they were so closely interwoven and needle-sharp. Mr. Rupert would have tarried long before this ancient hedge, but his small guide would not so allow.
“See those palms and olives? They are as old as old! Like Refugio itself. But the roses yonder came from France only this last year. And right here—look! These are anemones from my mother’s own childhood’s home. She had them sent after her when she came here.”